Laneth
by Allie Howe
Summary: The Abhorsen Dulana is missing and presumed dead. In this time of crisis her duties have fallen to her inexperienced daughter Miarael, who in turn leaves her little brother Laneth in charge of the defense of Belisaere. Now Miarael's off to face Necromance
1. Prelude

"I'm in deep trouble," Miarael whispered to the glowing charter mark in her hand, oblivious to the pouring rain in her plight.  
  
"Onward!" screamed a figure dressed in navy blue, a sharp contrast to the ashen bandolier stretched across his chest. He directed an army five hundred strong down the hill, the soldier's flesh peeling from their very bones in the cold rain. Their fetid stench identified them to be Dead, brought to Life by the necromancer.

Miarael fingered her own bandolier, mahogany and filed with the warmth of the Charter. "There's too many," she whispered, hidden among the tall grass at the base of the hill, behind her guards.

"Rip them to bits," the figure ordered as the Dead advanced on Miarael's position.

"I can't," Miarael sobbed.

"Feel their life," yelled the figure.

"I must."

"Leave none alive!"

"I will."

"GO!"

"GO!" Miarael's determined voice echoed. She flung herself out from behind a rock and faced the army of Dead squarely. Sheathing Aereba, her other hand groped the bandolier for a bell. Strangely, she was drawn to the largest, most foreboding bell. Shaking the feeling, she unwrapped Saraneth, the Binder, and rang it slowly at first, now growing and building speed and power She held back the power with a Free Magic spell, letting it accumulate. Her lips burned from the heat of the spell, and the bile rose in her throat at the hot metallic stench, but still Saraneth pealed.

The necromancer saw the young girl run from behind the rock, noticed the telltale gleam of silver that was a bell. A mischievous smile split his face, and he muttered one word: "Abhorsen."

Dimly, Miarael registered the battle raging before her, the Charter-spelled swords eating into Dead flesh. Charter marks flared along the blades, consuming the Dead things in a flurry of golden fire. Still more came. There were too many for the seven guards, only three of them mages.

She paid no heed to the Dead, slowly breaking through the wall of Life protecting her. Her will was focused on Saraneth, holding the building power of the bell back like a sluice gate holding back a river. Bits of it began to trickle out, striking the nearby Dead. Miarael knew she could hold it no longer and, with an accompanying whistle, let it go.

The sound of Saraneth permeated the air; it echoed everywhere, enveloping the very atoms of the atmosphere. Several of the Dead screamed, an unholy discord to the bell's sound, as they were forced back into Death. Most of them, however, were strong enough to resist Saraneth's call. Disappointed at this, Miarael began building power for another attack.

"Foolish Abhorsen," muttered the necromancer. "She should know better than to take on five thousand Dead at once. I thought it would be more difficult-" He was cut short as Saraneth rang though the air again, but this time Miarael's will was bent not upon the Dead, but fully upon the necromancer. He gasped and wavered for a moment, then, steeling himself, broke free of Saraneth's spell. Miarael was too far away to shackle him to her will. "Ah, is that how it's going to be? Abhorsen, don't be a fool. You can't play with the big boys." He carefully undid the third pouch on his bell-bandolier. From it he withdrew a bell, smaller than Saraneth, with an ashen handle to match. Perversions of Charter marks raced along its surface, twisting cruelly over the metal. Holding the clapper so it could not sound accidentally, he moved along the side of his ranks of Dead, towards Miarael.


	2. Swords and Gravy

"Persephone, don't cry," Laneth whispered. He hugged the small girl who rocked back and forth, her body hunched over in grief. "Persephone..." he trailed, unsure of what to say. The princess's rabbit had just died, after all. He sighed. Miarael was much better at this sort of thing.

Releasing the sobbing child, a thought entered his mind. What if he just... "No," he told himself firmly. His mother's words floated though his brain, echoing as loudly in his head as they had throughout the House seven years ago. "You cannot simply bring things back!" she had shouted, staring at the lively mouse that scurried at her feet. It was much more lively then than it had been a few hours before, when Mogget had killed it and attempted to eat it for supper. "Things that die are meant to! That's what Abhorsens do, we put down the Dead that others wrongly bring back to Life! Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?" she had finished, sinking exasperatedly into a chair.

Tears sprung to his eyes at the thought of his mother and her favorite phrase. He quickly blinked them away, ashamed. Abhorsens-In-Waiting didn't cry. He took a calming breath and hugged Persephone again. "It'll be alright," he said, comfortingly patting her on the back. "It'll be alright," he whispered again, half to Persephone, half to himself.

"Laneth! The Prince requests your presence!" a voice called across the courtyard.

"Now Persephone, don't you cry while I'm gone, you hear?" Laneth said, looking the girl in the eyes. She nodded slowly, brushing her tears away. "That's my girl," he smiled, standing.

Laneth jogged in the direction the voice had come from and discovered Halan, his and the prince's least favorite sentry. Halan was old, strict, and formal, and never laughed or smiled. Laneth pushed his apparent dislike aside and hailed the guard formally. "What does Prince Orthan require of me?" he asked, bowing his head slightly as was the custom addressing to a representative of the Royal family.

"I know only that he requires your presence in the Great Hall," he replied pompously, and quickly marched away.

Assuming he was to follow, Laneth struggled to keep up with Halan's fast pace. Years of marching on the parade ground had strengthened Halan's legs; similarly, years of pouring over scripts and Charter marks in the House's library had allowed Laneth's to become rather thin and flabby. As they hurried along, Laneth's muscles burned and he began to appreciate the benefits of regular exercise. Panting, he finally reached the Hall and spotted Orthan sitting at a table near the head, chatting animatedly with a cook. "Orth-" he called out breathily, but Halan clapped a hand over his mouth.

" Prince Orthan !" Halan announced instead. When the Prince's eyes settled on the two of them, Halan moved behind his charge. "Laneth, as you requested," he said, pushing Laneth rather roughly forward. "Can I do anything else for you, your highness?"

"No, Halan, that will be all, thank you. You are dismissed." Orthan then turned to Laneth and broke into a smile. "Ah, Laneth. Good to see you again," he said. "I trust your stay here at the palace has been most adequate?"

"Well, your highness," he answered with a smile, "it's been pretty good. I just got here about an hour ago, so I'm not sure what kind of judge I can be."

"You'll like it here, I promise. The cooking is excellent," he laughed. "Lunch will be served in an hour or so, but first we've got a little task."

"What is it?" asked Laneth, intrigued.

"You'll see," Orthan said grimly, leading Laneth through a door that he could only assume led to­-

"Ugh, kitchen duty? Isn't that what we have sendings for?" asked Laneth in disgust.

"Unless you can create a sending to wash dishes in the next five minutes, I suggest we get going," Orthan replied. "Father likes us to do palace chores once a week, something about learning how others live." The prince shook his head. "I don't understand it, but I do know it's double the next day if I or Persephone skip it. I assume the same applies to you."

"Oh, well. At least I can just..." Laneth closed his eyes as he reached into the Charter, bringing the marks for water, soap, and cleanliness forward from the endless sea. Something interrupted him sharply, and he reluctantly let the marks flow back into the Charter. "What?" he snapped, turning to Orthan, who had squeezed his shoulder.

"No magic," he said wearily and grabbed a sponge.

Laneth stared at the prince in disbelief. "No magic? As in none whatsoever? As in _washing by hand?_"

"Yup."

"But- I- You can't! _I_ can't! That's crazy," he finished, gaping at Orthan.

"That's just how it is." He pulled the top few dishes from a stack of dirty plates and placed them in the silver tub. Turning on the tap, he added a few drops of liquid soap and advised Laneth to do the same. The older boy reluctantly complied, filling his own basin with hot water from the springs beneath Belisaere. He forcefully snatched a few festering plates from the pile. They were coated in thick, smelly gravy, half rotten, from last night's dinner. Flies, driven by the prospect of food, had landed on the plates only to find themselves cemented to their surface by the sticky sauce. They now lay dead, embedded in the concoction they had come to feast upon. Laneth looked upon them with disgust before sliding them into the pan of soapy water. Retrieving a rather rank sponge from the cupboard, he began to scrub them as his mind wandered.

Who would have ever guessed that Laneth would now be living at the Palace? Certainly not Laneth himself. It had all started that fateful day three weeks ago- was it that recently? The time spent at Abhorsen's House seemed a world away now, as though he had crossed some sort of barrier. That life was now as distant as if it had been lived by someone else, someone far away. In a way it had been lived by someone else- a carefree, spirited fourteen-year-old harboring only thoughts of Charter spells and sendings. True, he learned the ways of a necromancer from his mother, but he didn't really pay attention. It was Miarael, after all, who was to be the next Abhorsen, not him. "You'd better learn it anyway," she warned. "Just in case." Laneth hadn't dreamed what situation would ever call upon his half-learned knowledge of Death and the Dead, but it was all too soon that that would become a reality.

He had been sitting in the library as usual, pouring over old texts and figures of Charter marks, when a message hawk arrived for his mother. To this day he knew not what the message held, but could guess a bit from Dulana's reaction. "Sendings! My gear!" she cried, pacing about anxiously while they retrieved her armor, surcoat, sword and bells. She allowed them to dress her as Laneth probed for answers. All she said was "I've got to go. If I'm not back in a week, send that hawk back to Belisaere; the King will know what to do. The sendings will cook, don't remove Mogget's collar. I love you." She ducked out the door and fled across the stepping stones to the shore. And neither Laneth or Miarael saw her ever again.

A week passed with no news. Both children knew in their hearts that she wasn't coming back, but to send the message hawk was to attach some sort of finality to the matter. Better to hold off, to wait... Another week passed, again with no news. And then they knew they had to send the message. Miarael held the hawk in the courtyard. Tears streaming unchecked down her red cheeks, she flung her arms up and the hawk took off, straight as an arrow, to the north. Laneth joined in the mourning, weeping freely for the mother he had never truly appreciated.

Three days later, six armed horsemen appeared on the eastern shore. Laneth and Miarael were quite alarmed as they dismounted and hopped across the stepping stones with relative ease. But at they drew nearer, they recognized the Royal blazon on their jerkins. "Abhorsen," one bellowed over the noise of the falls, "the King requests your and your brother's presence at his Royal palace. Will you ride with us?" He gestured behind him, where two saddled horses stood ready to carry the pair. Miarael nodded from the observatory window, and turned to find that the sendings had packs ready for the both of them. They dumped each out and repacked them to show their occupants- food, extra clothing, a few books for Laneth, and Miarael's mahogany bell bandolier. In addition, one sending brought a sword- a spelled sword with a brilliant sapphire for the pommel. Mirarael took it gratefully, reading the inscription that flashed across. "I am Aereba. I slay the Dead that trespass in Life, for Life was made but for the living. Wield me well, Abhorsen."

"Abhorsen", echoed Miarael as another sending buckled a belt around her waist. "Abhorsen!" she declared, holding the sword aloft. Then she thrust Aereba into its scabbard and immediately took charge. "Laneth, grab the packs. We leave for the Palace."

"The Palace," Laneth muttered, "where I am currently washing dishes. Ugh!" He had missed the edge of the plate, sending his soapy hand careening into a plateful of the fly-ridden gravy. He held it up, examining his predicament, while Halan crept into the kitchen. Once the irritable guard was right behind the Abhorsen-In-Waiting, he cried, "Message hawk for Laneth!" The boy nearly jumped through the ceiling in surprise, before quickly washing his hand and dashing up to the message tower.


End file.
